


Autumn

by starspangledmanwithaplan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bikers, Bikers, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 08:42:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 4,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19742146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starspangledmanwithaplan/pseuds/starspangledmanwithaplan
Summary: A collection of drabbles inspired by Autumn Writing Prompts.





	1. Autumn Feelings

**Author's Note:**

> You and Bucky spend a wonderful fall day together.
> 
> Written for @sugarfreecapsicle on Tumblr.

* * *

Fall is your favorite time of the year. Apple spice and pumpkin  _ everything. _ Borderline frigid evenings. Bonfires and roasting marshmallows. Flannel blanket across your thighs as you sit on the porch, stargazing, wishing on a falling star. You dress in layers. Jeans tucked into black boots. Bucky’s t-shirt under a stolen flannel. His leather jacket, heavy on your shoulders, enveloping you in his smell. But your favorite thing is riding around on Bucky’s motorcycle. Thighs pressing against his. Arms curled around his waist. Leaning into the curves. 

He’s got a hand on your thigh as he maneuvers the bike through the curved road. You rest your helmet against his shoulder, eyes scanning the scenery. Evergreen hills surround you. Tiger poppies. Cloud-white and gray yarrow. Heather chicories splashed throughout. 

When you ask where he’s going, he says it’s a surprise. “Don’t wanna ruin it, doll.” He squeezes your knee, calloused fingers catching on the seam of your jeans. 

You pinch his side, reveling in the way his stomach contracts, tightens under your touch. “You’re no fun.”

“Doll, you know that ain’t true.”

“Then tell me,” you plead. 

He shakes his head, pitch helmet looking depressed among the bright foliage. 

Once he has his mind made up, it’s no use. So, you give up. You enjoy the ride. The sway of the bike, the caramel and creme horses, spotted cows, fluffy llamas that give way to apple trees. Rows and rows of large trees, their branches heavy with crimson, moss, and flamingo. 

The bike slows gradually, the crunch of gravel under its tires oddly soothing. It reminds you of walking on a pebbled beach. The smooth stones shifting underfoot, wet and slick. 

You’re the first one to dismount. Helmet off, hair tumbling down, jacket hanging loose. “It’s beautiful,” you muse, taking in your surroundings, the bite of autumn stinging your lungs.

A smirking Bucky grabs your hand and tugs. “C’mon.” 

You follow him, not like you would have chosen not to. The morning’s dew still clings to the blades of grass, streaking against your boots. It’s damp earth and crisp florals that fills your lungs, makes you heady, happy. 

There’s a picnic table. Red and black checkered cloth and a gingerbread basket. Bucky reaches inside and pulls out plates, silverware, a green thermos with hot apple cider. There are tinfoil-wrapped sandwiches and potato chips inside small paper bags. There’s apple salad with pecans and raisins. And finally, a piping hot slab of apple crumble. 

“How did -”

“I know people,” he teases with a wink. 

“Sam?”

Another wink and a smirk, and Bucky is shoveling food onto your plate. 

You’re full. So very full, and the sun is bright, high in the sky, beaming down on you. You shrug out of Bucky’s jacket as you stand and tie it around your waist. 

“Walk with me?” you request, fingers wiggling, waiting for his hand to encompass yours. 

Bucky doesn’t disappoint. He wraps your hand in his, fingers threaded together, sliding against one another like lovers under silken sheets. He snags an apple from a heavy branch, cherry red, wipes it against his shirt and takes a bite. Loud and crisp, droplets and apple juice spraying. 

You pluck it from his grip and take a bite despite the protests of your stomach. It’s tart and smooth, juices dancing on your tastebuds. The apple is shared between you, and in no time at all, Bucky’s tossing the core into one of the barrels scattered throughout the orchard. 

“We should get back,” he suggests, arm heavy on your shoulders. “It’s gettin’ cold.”

Gone is the sun. Mauve, periwinkle, blush, and denim paint the sky. A shiver works its way up your spine and you snuggle closer to Bucky. You agree, albeit reluctantly, and pull on his jacket as you hike back to the motorcycle. 

Before he can put on his helmet, you pull him down for a kiss. Firm and searing. “Thank you for today.”

Bucky brushes his nose against yours, your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “It ain’t over yet.” 

“What do you mean?” 

His wink disappears behind the helmet. “There’s one more surprise. Unless, you’re too tired,” he teases, straddling the bike and turning the key. 

You have never mounted a bike so fast in your life. 


	2. Planting a Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You spend the day planting flowers in your garden.

* * *

Dirt under your fingernails was your idea of Heaven. The thick, gritty, cool texture of it, pressing into your fingerprints, into the fine lines and crevices. It was therapy. Your knees were stained, earth soaking into the denim. Streaks of soil on your forehead as you hastily wiped away some hair with the back of your hand. On your cheeks from where you had swatted a mosquito. 

Monstrous dahlia. Obsidian and copper. Champagne and periwinkle. Apricot and cream. They were planted around the edges, used as a border to liven up the garden. 

Cyclamen hederifolium. Lilac and cotton. Delicate petals, like a butterfly or hummingbird’s wings on chopstick stems. 

Snowdrop. Stark white, drooping, hanging its head as if ashamed of its plainness. Hearty, simple, resilient. 

Winter Aconite. Buttery, happy, sunshine. Pollen that stains your nails. They make you smile. 

Nerine. Bubble gum and white. Petals like strips of tape, curled out and under. Silken and tender. 

Gladiolus murielae. Elegant, extravagant, dramatic. Fragrant. A splash of plum in the center. 

Hundreds of bulbs placed deep into the earth, fertilized soil layered on top. Not packed down. Don’t want to smother them. It takes you hours and hours. Your back and thighs are shaking when you stand, feet buzzing, toes numb. The sun has kissed your neck and shoulders, biceps and forearms. You had forgotten to reapply the sunscreen. 

In the shower, there’s a line of dirt, evidence of the long hours of hard labor. You wince as you dry off, the plush cotton disturbs the burn and your muscles protest at the movement. 

“Baby, can you put some aloe on my shoulders?” you asked Bucky, towel tucked around you, knot between your breasts. 

“A’course,” he purrs, taking the bottle from you. Green goo is squeezed into his palm and he tries to warm it up before caressing it against your skin. 

You hiss and tense before you relax. Hair swept to the side, droplets of water trickling down your chest, soaking the towel. Calluses catch a particular spot and you flinch. 

“Sorry, doll,” Bucky laments, low, ashamed. 

“It’s okay,” you assure him, sighing, eyelids heavy. 

He kisses your crown and squeezes your hips. “Hungry?”

“Sleepy,” you murmur, turning, catching his lips in yours. 

“Go lie down. I’ll get the lotion for your legs. They must be sore.” 

You give him a lazy smile. “And my lower back?”

Bucky smears a kiss against your nose. “And your lower back.”


	3. Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky surprises you with a night in front of a campfire.

* * *

Campfires. There was something extremely soothing, relaxing about watching the flames dance that calmed your fraying nerves. They were hypnotic. Cherry, crimson, merigold, honey, gold dandelion. Licking the bark. Moving in the breeze as if they were lovers, dancing to a silent song. 

Bucky had surprised you. Packed a sleeping bag and pillow into the saddlebags of his motorcycle. Said, “Hop on, doll.” Patted the leather seat and handed you the helmet. 

“Something we haven’t done in a while,” he added when you asked where he was taking you.

Three hours, one stop for dinner and gas later, he steered the bike onto a campground. 

“Lot 13,” the attendant said, eyeing the lack of equipment. “We got tents if y’all need them.”

Bucky shook his head and grinned. “Nah. We’re good.” 

With his arm heavy on your shoulders, bag and pillow tucked under his other arm, the two of you strolled through the wooded lot until you came to the spot Bucky had rented as a surprise. It was quiet and secluded, despite the multitude of RVs and tents that had already been set up. 

“You spoil me, Barnes,” you hummed, smearing a kiss to his whiskered cheek. 

“You deserve it, doll,” he replied, chest rumbling under your touch. 

Twenty minutes later, the two of you were tucked into the oversized sleeping bag. Bucky was closest to the fire. Your head was on his chest, hand on his stomach. His arm was curled around your shoulders, fingers flexing, tips sweeping back and forth. 

Stars sparkled in the sky like diamonds against the expanse of obsidian. A dusting of apricot and ruby were all that remained of the sun in the west. Embers jumped from the flames, drifting into the sky, swirling like a miniature fire tornado. The crackling of wood, being consumed by the flames, shifting as they settled. 

Bucky’s breathing was steady, rhythmic. His body heat seeped into you, deep into the tissue and marrow, soothing you further. You drifted off, the intoxicating smell of campfire smoke in the air, lulling you into unconsciousness.


	4. Extra Large

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky playfully picks on you for your love of oversized sweaters.

* * *

Wool. Cashmere. Cotton. 

Blush. Ginger. Cream. Ruby. Azure. 

It didn’t matter that material they were made of, what color they were, sweaters were a staple for your autumn wardrobe. There was only one way to wear them. Extra large. Your hands were completely hidden. The hem fell to your knees. The collar was well past your collar bones. 

Bucky tugged at a loose thread on your shoulder. “Doll,” he chuckled. “What d’ya say we find you some new shirts?”

You shook your head and playfully smacked his hand away. “Nope. I like this one just fine.”

“Baby,” he cooed, hand heavy on your shoulder. 

“Buck,” you hummed, peering up at him through your lashes. 

“It hides your body, baby.” He squeezed your hips, the thick sweater softening his touch. 

You stepped closer to him, his chest brushing against yours “Extra large. Extra comfortable.” 

Bucky made a sound in the back of his throat, calluses tugging on the sweater. “I love seeing your body.” His voice had dropped, thick with lust, raw need. 

“Do you now?” You curled a finger in his belt loops and tugged,  _ hard _ . “What do you plan on doing about it?”

There was a wicked gleam in his eyes before he fisted your shirt. “I’ll show you what I’m gonna do about it,” he growled, picking you up, and throwing you over his shoulder, his hand coming down hard on your ass.


	5. Flannel at Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Along with flannel sheets, Bucky keeps you warm at night.

* * *

The weather had started to turn. The nights were no longer stifling, thick with humidity, threatening the atmosphere with storms. A chill had crept into the small house you and Bucky shared. Gathered in the corners until there was too much of it. Spreading out, long tendrils, rapidly cooling items of clothing and bedding. 

You had changed the sheets earlier, high-thread cotton to flannel, red and black, stripes of silver and gold. They were a birthday present from Bucky. He wouldn’t admit it, but he loved them almost as much as you did. The thick softness of the fabric against naked skin, holding off the cold for a bit longer. Curling together, huddling for warmth, the fireplace crackling and popping. You didn’t want to turn the heat on.

“Not yet,” you pleaded. 

Bucky’s hand was stretched out, the thermostat almost within reach. “It’s going to get into the fifties tonight.”

You moved the blankets and patted the mattress. “Then you better cuddle me tight, Barnes.”

“One more night,” he half-heartedly threatened.

He was on the bed, sliding between the sheets, hissing as your toes came into contact with his calves. “Shit, doll. Where are those socks I got you?”

“Over there,” you hummed, smirking, pointing at your dresser. 

“They’re doing you no good over there.” 

“Then it’s a good thing I have you.” You pressed a kiss to his forehead, giggling, toes wiggling. 

Bucky sighed in faux annoyance. “You’re lucky I love you.” His chest rumbled against your side as he rested his head on you, your heart beating against his temple. 

Knowing how much it relaxed him, you worked your fingers through his longer-than-normal hair. Nails scraped against his scalp, tips massaging, twirling the strands around and around. In a matter of minutes, Bucky was snoring softly, breathing deep and rhythmic, heart fluttering against his ribs,  _ your _ ribs. 


	6. Baking With Apples

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky distracts you from making your favorite dessert.

* * *

Pie. Crumble. Bars. Crisp. Turnovers. Butter. Jam. Fritters. Candied. Caramel. Cake. Bread. Chutney. Crepes. Anything and everything to do with baking and apples, you were in. 

You loved it. Peeling back the flamingo, sea, scarlet skin. The spray of juice. Occasionally dripping off your wrists and elbows. Fingers slick and sticky. Cutting into them. Boiling and cooking the slices. Mixing them raw into the batter, the mixture of spices. Nutmeg. Cinnamon. Allspice. Clove. Lemon zest. Each one sending your senses into overdrive. 

“Bucky, baby,” you called out, a pout on your lips. “I need your help.”

Dark glasses perched on the end of his nose, hair pulled back, arms bare, tattoos on full display, he strolled into the room and chuckled. “What d’ya need, doll face?”

You wiggled your arms and whined. Your hands were buried in an enticing apple spice mixture and the sleeves of your sweater had slipped down. “Roll them up?”

He slipped his book onto the edge of the counter. “What d’ya say?”

“Please,” you gasped, the edge sliding into the mix. 

Bucky chuckled, bottom lip between his teeth, and came to stand behind you. “You know,” he murmured, hands heavy on your hips, chest against your back, nose skimming the shell of your ear. “You smell  _ good _ , baby.”

“That… that’s not me,” you protested weakly. 

A hum made his lips and chest vibrate. “Baby,” he purred. “It is you.” 

Lust bubbled in your gut as you fought to keep your eyes from rolling back. “No, it’s the apples.”

“Baby, baby,” he rasped, hand under your sweater, on your stomach, teasing the top of your shorts. 

“Buck, ple- please,” you stammered, heart hammering, cooked apples and spices  _ squishing _ between your fingers. “Let me finish this.”

He curled a finger under your chin and angled your head so his lips smeared against yours. “Gimme a taste.” 

The breath rattled in your lungs before he kissed you. Full lips and teeth tugged on yours, urging your mouth open. He swallowed your moans as he tasted you, tongue curling, tangling with yours, fingers digging bruises into your skin as he turned you, gripping your thighs, lifting you onto the counter. 

“Taste so good, baby,” he praised, oblivious to the apple concoction on his shirt. “I want more.” 

You haphazardly wiped your hands on a towel, legs around his tapered waist. “You’re naughty,” you giggled, drunk on his kisses, your body craving him,  _ him,  _ **_him._ **

“I’m whatever you want me to be, doll face.” With expanding pupils, Bucky slipped his hand between your legs, strong fingers pushing your shorts and panties to the side. “But right now, I want to hear you scream.” 

Who were you to deny him? 


	7. Wicked Branches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After watching a scary movie, you have a hard time falling asleep.

* * *

It was late. Friday the thirteenth. The moon was full, high in the sky. Wispy clouds, silver, fossil, like stretched out cotton candy, thin, borderline transparent. Owls were awake. Their single syllable songs drifting through the open window of your bedroom. Trees surrounded the house. Normally, the branches were loaded with leaves, sagging under the weight. But tonight, they reached out, elongated and slender fingers, curling, twisting in the wind. 

You shifted, deeper into the blankets. 

“You okay, baby?” Bucky murmured. He was reading a book, the third in the  _ Harry Dresden Files _ series, black-framed glasses perched on his nose, completely absorbed in the world of wizards and magic. 

A shrug was your only answer as you continued to stare at the branches. 

“Baby?” He pressed a hand to your thigh and squeezed. “You even awake?”

“I’m awake,” you confirmed, tight and raspy. 

“What’s’a matter?” he asked again, pages rustling as he tucked the bookmark into place and closed the book. 

Another shrug. “I dunno. I’m just… it’s creepy out there tonight.” 

Bucky chuckled ruefully, the book and glasses now resting on the table. “It’s not bad, doll.” 

“It is,” you insisted, eyes wide, taking in every twitch and shiver of the branches. 

He curled his body around yours, arm over your waist, hand pressed to your stomach, legs tangling with yours, lips in your hair. “We shouldn’t have watched that movie.”

“The movie didn’t scare me.” 

The chuckle made his chest rumble against your back. “Doll face, you’ve been staring out the window for almost an hour.” 

“Has nothing to do with the movie,” you pouted, rolling your eyes, upset at yourself. 

Bucky’s lips pressed to your crown, temple, cheekbone. “You sure ‘bout that?”

You hummed, fingers tangling with Bucky’s. “Can we uh, can we leave the light on tonight?”

“Whatever you need, baby,” he assured you gently. 

“And you won’t leave?”

Chapped lips pressed firmly against your earlobe. “Wild stallions couldn’t tear me away.”

The thought made you groan. “Bucky, don’t say that.”

“Oh, the movie, yeah,” he sighed. “Sorry. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

A small shiver slithered down your spine at the sight of a particular branch, close to the house, swaying even closer, the spindly, twisted wood almost scraping against the siding. On instinct, you shifted closer to Bucky. 

“I got’chu, baby.” 


	8. Collection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your collection of pretty leaves has gotten out of control.

* * *

Maple. Crimson and marigold. 

Birch. Pear and sea. 

Elm. Canary and sangria. 

Dogwood. Persian and moss. 

Each leaf, a different size. Bigger than your hand, as small as your eye. Everything in between. 

You stored them in frames, pinned between two planes of glass, and between the pages of books, which made you chuckle sardonically. It felt cruel, surrounding them in the possible future for the ones they had emerged from. If you didn’t love reading so much, the feel of the pages between your fingers, ink smearing, the smell of them, you would strongly consider getting a Kindle. 

Bucky was laughing, rich, hearty, amused. You followed the hypnotic sound of it and found him on his hands and knees, leaves everywhere, a tapestry of colors. 

“What happened here?”

He peered up at you and held up a wad of leaves. “I think it’s time we found someplace else for all this.” 

“Why?” you wondered, dropping down to help him. 

“Doll,” he purred, motioning toward the pile of books next to him. “These were  _ stuffed _ . Damn near bursting.”

“I like collecting leaves,” you unnecessarily pointed out. 

“Ain’t nothing wrong with that,” he chuckled, hand resting on yours. “But babe, let’s get you something for them. Some scrapbooks, maybe? Or some of those fancy display cases we can hang on the wall.”

You grinned at him. “We’re gonna need a lot of those display cases.”

“Yeah we are,” he agreed, laughter coloring his words. 


	9. Stuffed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Bucky eat way too much pie.

* * *

Apple. Cherry. Lemon. Blueberry. Pumpkin. Raspberry. Pecan. Cherry. Key Lime. Peach. Peanut butter. Chocolate. At least a dozen personal pie tins littered the kitchen table, crumbs and globs of sweet nectar trying to entice you into eating more,  _ more _ . But god, you were full. So full. Stuffed to the bursting point. And Bucky, he was mirroring your groans of discomfort. 

“I’m never eating another slice of pie as long as I live,” Bucky announced, leaning back, hand against his stomach. 

“Don’t say that,” you admonished him, though you couldn’t blame him. “You love pie.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Not right now I don’t.”

You reached for the napkin, grunting when it remained  _ just _ out of reach. “Why did we do this again?”

“They looked good.”

“And they were on sale at the Farmer’s Market.”

“They’re not as good as yours,” Bucky praised you, hand flexing on your thigh. 

You hummed in appreciation. “You’re just saying that.”

“No, it’s true,” he insisted. “I… I’d eat twice as much if you made them.”

Shaking your head, you tried sitting up. “You’d tap out.” The whole sitting up thing? Didn’t happen. You fell back against the couch and sighed.

“Would not,” he scoffed. 

“Would so.”

“Nope,” Bucky insisted. “I love pie your too much.”

You started giggling, hard, clutching your sides and stomach because it hurt too much. 


	10. Slipping Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time is slipping away and you can feel it.

Going into October, the days were getting shorter. The sun set earlier and rose later. The chilled obsidian of night lingered longer. It felt gradual, slow, the slipping of time. A minute here. Three minutes there. Chipped away from your day in small doses. 

Bucky didn’t notice it as much, but you did. 

“Baby,” you cooed, wrapped in a blanket, sitting on the porch swing. “What time is it?”

“Just about seven,” he answered, arm heavy on your shoulders, cheek against your crown. 

You hummed, slightly disappointed. The swirl of lilac, blush, and periwinkle had surrendered themselves and stars began twinkling like diamonds against the onyx backdrop.

“Why?”

Shrugging, you readjusted and curled an arm around his waist, forearm resting on his stomach. “I don’t like it.”

“Don’t like what, sugar?”

“It gets dark so early.” You were whining, but Bucky didn’t mind. 

“I thought you liked it,” he hummed, fingers squeezing your shoulder. 

You shrugged again, sighing harder than before. “I do, sort of, but… I don’t know.”

Bucky kissed your hair. “You know what we should do tomorrow?”

“What?” 

“Go to the corn maze, get lost, buy some pumpkins.” 

Your spirits lifted and your chest warmed at the mere thought of it. “I could make pumpkin soup.”

Bucky chuckled and kissed your nose, your chin trapped between his thumb and forefinger. “You sure could, sugar.” 


	11. Harvest Fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky surprises you while spending the day at the harvest fair.

* * *

Bowling with gourds. Pin the tail on the llama. Bobbing for apples. Cookie decorating. Corn maze. Petting zoo.

A farmer’s market. Pies and jams. Melons and breads. Hand-made lace and cross-stitching. It could all be yours, for a small fee, of course. 

You had to restrain yourself by bringing a certain amount of cash and leaving the debit card at home. Bucky loved you dearly, but your affinity to buy  _ all the things _ could push him over the limit, he always joked, winking and kissing you breathless. 

After setting the bags on the backseat, Bucky returned to the fair to find you standing at a booth, staring at something wistfully. His hands rested on your hips as he stood behind you.

“What’cha see, doll?”

You leaned against him and sighed, pointing at the far corner of a jewelry display case. “It’s so pretty.” 

_ It _ was a rose gold owl, its large belly acting as a locket, swirls of thin gold, yellow and white, intricately designed. 

“Why don’t you get it?” he cooed, lips against your ear. 

“It’s expensive,” you informed him sadly. Your shoulders sagged and you patted his hand. “I’m going to get a cider. You coming?” 

Bucky pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Go ahead, sugar. I’ll catch up. There’s something I want to look at.”

You didn’t question him, just pushed up to kiss his cheek and pat his chest, and then you were off. Other trinkets and treats snagged your attention, but you were still thinking about the owl locket and how it was the perfect size for that one picture you loved so much. 

Just as the clerk handed you a steaming cup of hot caramel apple cider, Bucky appeared, a small smirk tugging at his lips and his hands shoved deep into his pockets. You blew into the cup and hooked your hand onto his elbow, following him toward the corn maze. 

Kids brushed past, chasing one another, giggling almost maniacally as they disappear beyond the stalks. You shook your head and grinned up at Bucky. 

“One day, right?” you asked wistfully, hopeful, longingly. 

Bucky brushed your nose with his as he stalled his momentum, you stilling next to him. “One day,” he promised, finger curled under your chin, lips smearing against yours. 

You pushed up into the kiss, surprising him, nibbling on his bottom lip. When he moved to deepen the kiss, hands on the small of your back and ass, something fell from his pocket, landing almost mutely in the dirt. You bent down and picked up a small brown box with a twine bow affixed to the top. 

“Buck?” 

He took hold of your cider and nodded. “Go ahead.”

Butterflies swarmed your stomach and every hair on your arms stood. “What’d you do?”

“Open it,” Bucky insisted, nudging the box. 

Unlike a little kid on Christmas morning, you carefully removed the lid, settling the bottom of the box inside of it before lifting away a thin strip of cotton. There, in a long string of curled gold, sat the owl locket you had been ogling. 

“Bucky,” you gasped, carefully lifting it from the box. “You didn’t have -”

“I wanted to, sugar,” he cooed, extracting the box from your hand. 

You examined it closely and couldn’t keep from grinning. “Thank you, baby. I absolutely love it.” 

He waited until you had placed it around your neck, tugging your hair free from the strand, before kissing you sweetly. “I love you.” 

“I love you, too,” you practically purred, fingers toying with the owl while you kissed him. 


	12. By Candlelight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reading by fall-scented candlelight is one of your favorite activities.

You absolutely loved a good autumn-scented candle. Cinnamon, mulled cider, cranberry, pumpkin spice, and cedar-wood, just to name a few. They lined the shelves in the living room, you set them on the edge of the tub when you took a bath. They were lit almost every second you were awake, except when you weren’t home, of course. You wouldn’t risk burning down your home. 

One wick, two, or three. Sometimes they had five wicks, but that candle was huge and it took almost two years to get through it. Not that you minded. Not one little bit. You loved the pine aroma of it, the memories it brought to the surface. 

Hiking through the woods. Digging out the Christmas decorations. Preparing a large holiday feast. Baking pies and cookies. All of that and more, with Bucky by your side. 

He found you in the living room, curled on one end of the couch, buried beneath a mountain if blankets, your nose buried in another book. He chuckled low in his throat and pushed the blanket down with his fingers. 

“Sugar,” he purred. “You alive in there?”

Lost in a world of medieval knights and maidens that kicked ass and took names, all you did was hum. 

“Oh, suuuu _ gaaaaar _ ,” he sang, pushing the blanket further down. 

Another hum spilled out as you turned the page. “Hold on. Just a couple more pages.”

“You said that two hours ago,” Bucky teased, dropping onto the couch, snuggling as close to you as he could. 

“It’s not my fault this is such a great book.”

After shifting the blankets out of the way as best he could, Bucky rested his head on your lap, sighing contentedly as your fingers threaded through his hair. 

“You know, this would be much more comfortable in bed,” he noted after yawning loudly.

“I’m sure it would be.” You glanced down and found his eyes drifting shut. 

Bucky had been working hard at the shop, long hours, including weekends. It was a wonder he hadn’t fallen asleep standing up. 

You closed the book and gave his chestnut strands a gentle tug. “Take me to bed, Barnes.” 

“But your book,” he said softly, exhaustion clinging to his words. 

“If you fall asleep here, you’re going to regret it in the morning,” you reminded him. “Plus, the candles.”

Stormy eyes went wide and he shoved himself up. “I’ll get ‘em.” 


End file.
